


Fast Cars and Airplanes in Heaven

by TheAllpowerfulOZ



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Deals with the aftermath of rape and sex trafficking, F/M, Gen, M/M, PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION!, Repost from my old FF.Net, TRIGGERING SCENES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2440271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAllpowerfulOZ/pseuds/TheAllpowerfulOZ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The COMPLETE Fast Cars and Airplanes in Heaven.</p><p>I have decided to go back and edit in Men With Capes. I will also be adding a few chapters to round things out. In that case, I will be updating this weekly, if everything goes well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

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> 
> BACK STORY;
> 
> I wrote this with these ideas in mind…
> 
> Malik and Altair are Syrian, Malik's parents immigrated to the US from separate cities to attend college where they met, fell in love and married. A year later Malik was born, and three years after that Kadar. When Malik is fifteen their mother passes from a brain hemorrhage after a blow to the head while shopping. (Which she'd dismissed because it really wasn't a very hard blow at all.) Their father doesn't take her loss well at all and falls into a severe depression leaving Malik to practically raise and support him and his younger brother. Despite his grades, his lack of faithful attendance gets Malik held back a year where he meets Altair.
> 
> Altair's mother was born in the US, got pregnant at a young age and ran away out of shame. He was raised by her, living in cheap tenements and halfway houses until he was nine years old, when she died of ovarian cancer. He was adopted at age ten by a police officer and his wife and their four other children. 
> 
> Altair ends up going to the same high school as Malik and Kadar because of this.
> 
> If you have any questions please feel free to ask.
> 
> Giovanni Auditore and his brother own and run a successful private bank in downtown Chicago. While vacationing in Italy he meets and falls in love with Maria and after extending his vacation by almost six months, she and Giovanni get married and spend the first three years of their marriage between Italy and Chicago. When their first son Federico is born they settle down in Chicago and spend most of their time in one another's presence. 
> 
> Ethan Miles comes from a low income family in Ohio. He moved first to Columbus in search of work, where instead he ended up getting his girlfriend pregnant and abandoning her. He moves to Chicago to escape the responsibility, but ten and a half months later she shows up at his door and dumps a newborn on him. They try unsuccessfully to 'make it work' but in the end she leaves him to care for his infant son. He's not a very good father, he never wanted kids, and even though he loves Desmond, his selfishness and impatience shows in the almost spiteful way he treats his son some times. Pounding home lessons Desmond is much too young to learn. 
> 
> When Desmond is ten years old Ethan manages to get a job as a janitor in the Audutore's bank and frequently has to hide his son in the janitor's break room on weekends when he works. Desmond though, is a terribly curious child, and often leaves the break room to wander around. 
> 
> One day he gets stuck in an elevator, where he meets Giovanni's second son Ezio, who had also been running around and the two of them end up becoming very good friends.
> 
> Giovanni works things around and manages to get Desmond accepted to the private school Ezio attends, and because his family's happiness and wellbeing means so much to him, he even pays for it too.
> 
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**Chapter 1; The Boy**

He'd seen the same thing happen before. Dozens of times actually, and most usually it ended in a morgue over a cold, dead body.

Altair had not wanted to be a private investigator. At age ten he'd been adopted into a family of policemen and former Marines. Being a cop or a soldier was his dream from that moment on. Growing up in Chicago made very little else an interest to him, aside from music. Dear God did he like music, but that was beside the point.

At eighteen he'd enlisted, right out of high school, and at nineteen he'd been discharged from duty because of a nasty little mishap in the Middle East on his first tour involving two fellow translators, a thug, a car bomb and a lot of ego. After that police work was out of the question. Altair suffered from, PTSD. It made him too paranoid, introverted and trigger happy, he couldn't bear to let himself close to a gun again.

That had been almost three years ago, and after his return Altair's adoptive father had hit him with a heavy dose of humility, promptly throwing him out of the family home, leaving him to fend for himself on the streets for a year and a half.

Malik, bless him, after a bitter feud that lasted almost two years, had recently done something Altair hadn't believed him capable of.

He'd forgiven him, and offered him a small office/apartment in the building he owned and ran his print shop from, and somehow, through twisting and who knew what favors he'd had to call in, he'd managed to help Altair get his PI's license.

And over the last year Altair had seen things through his work with the police that reminded him too keenly of the short term he and the other man had shared overseas.

While Malik prayed, the rhythmic chanting almost like a song across the hall, Altair stared out the window and tried to will the memories of chattering gunfire and smoke from his mind, tried to forget the stench of scorched flesh and the screams of anguish from Malik's dying little brother as he'd bled out, despite the medic's best efforts.

And his newest case?

Well, that didn't help matters at all.

A kidnapping, one of many in the last few months, this time two twelve-year-old boys had been snatched while they walked to school.

The boys' respective parents had done the unthinkable when they'd received phone calls from the kidnappers. "We want a million in small bills delivered to this occasion by five thirty tomorrow, or you'll never see these kids alive again."

What had the parents done?

They'd emptied their bank accounts and attempted to deal with this without fuss, without bringing in the police and angering the bastards.

Five thirty came around, Giovanni Auditore and Ethan Miles waited, and sure enough, a man appeared, his face hooded, eyes dark, and took the two cases of cash, tossing to the two worried fathers a single key to a shabby hotel near Chicago Midway Airport—

That lead to a completely empty room wherein they found two Polaroid photos of their sons, bound and gagged with knives to their throats.

"A million each…"

Airport security cameras showed no sign of the kids. And the hotel's security video was conveniently missing.

The families informed the police, the police did their jobs… And now, two days later, without further word from the kidnappers, and no leads whatsoever, the 'Rescue' had been switched to 'Recovery' and the police were dredging the river, diving in the lake off the docks.

And Giovanni Auditore had given Altair a phone call.

Well, he would have talked to Altair, if Altair hadn't been out shopping at the moment. As it was Malik answered the phone, took a note and left it pinned to Altair's door with a kitchen knife.

The next day he met with the two families and stared at photos of the boys; Ezio, a cocky looking little kid in a soccer uniform, grinning impishly at the camera, his hair sticking up in a breeze that must have been blowing when the photo was taken. And Desmond, a skinny little kid with a grin too wide for his face and what looked like, from the way his hands were blurred in the photo, a mild case of ADHD.

Maria, Giovanni's wife, spoke only Italian, and spent most of the meeting sobbing into her husband's shoulder. Giovanni's face was full of regret, his eyes puffy and red as he told Altair everything he knew, begging him to please find his son.

Ethan Miles, on the other hand, was a single father, his son's mother having left him when the boy was still in diapers. He worked in the Auditore's private bank as a janitor, and although he wasn't close with Ezio's family, their sons had been friends. Ezio helping Desmond with his math, Desmond helping with Ezio's spelling. Playing video games, watching movies, running around in the park; things young boys did.

Ethan Miles was a calm man, Altair for some reason pictured him as an alcoholic who didn't really spend much time with his son. The man's eyes almost dead looking, he also happened to be a realist.

When Giovanni had to take his wife out of the room to calm her, Ethan said in a quiet voice, face turned to the floor; "I know this isn't going to end well. It never does… J-just promise me." He looked up then and there was a fierce almost painful light in his eyes. "Promise me you'll make those bastards pay."

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Altair had contacts in the city. Friends he'd made in the time he'd lived on the streets after his father had kicked him out, as well as family friends that despite what had happened, still held a place for him in their hearts.

Within four hours of meeting with the Auditore parents and Ethan Miles he had a lead.

A homeless man who Altair knew as Marvin, had talked to a woman who'd been collecting cans on the very street the two boys were snatched from, and after a beer and a Subway sandwich, he instructed the younger man where to find her.

When Altair approached the woman she was sitting beside some garbage cans with a plush cat in her lap, cradling it and singing to it as if it were a baby.

"That's a nice cat… What's its name?"

The woman looked up at him with a deadpan expression on her dirty face. "It's a toy you nimrod…" And she went back to singing to it.

"Oh… Sorry." He scratched under the collar of his shirt and cleared his throat; "Listen, Marvin told me you were gathering up some cans two streets over, near the river, last week."

"Maybe… My memory isn't so good anymore, and the letters on street signs always did laugh at me, so I try not to look at them." She tucked the cat into a rather large purse on her arm and climbed to her feet. "You a cop or something?" She raised a dark eyebrow at him.

"No, Ma'am… I'm a Private Investigator." He walked cautiously forward, movements slow as he pulled the two photos of the boys from his pocket. "You haven't seen either of these boys, have you?"

She took one look at the photos and smiled. Cooing like a new mother. "Oh, yes, I remember THAT ONE!" She pointed to Ezio's photo then started digging around in her purse.

Altair stepped back warily.

She pulled out a plastic baggy with two half eaten cookies inside. "He passes by here on his way to school, always gives me his lunch!" She patted the cookies and hid them quickly back in her purse. "He's such a nice boy… Is he sick? I haven't seen him, or his little friend in a long time." She rubbed her stomach.

Altair felt his chest ache; "Where did you see him?"

She carefully shuffled to the mouth of the alley, peering out as if something might see her, squinted around left and right, then with a happy little 'AH!' She pointed to the left toward the corner.

"He and the other boy stopped there after giving me the sandwich and the cookies…" She paused, her face scrunching up as if deep in thought and turned to Altair with wide eyes. "A man was there already. Dressed a lot like you, only in black… Then a van pulled to the corner and picked them and the man up… That man wasn't supposed to do that was he…" She mumbled to herself for a few seconds, giving a quick twitch of her head on her neck. "Oh, dear… I'm in trouble now, aren't I?" She looked up at Altair with fearful eyes a hand to each cheek.

"No, no… You're actually being a big help… Would you mind telling the police what you told me?"

She shifted away from him for a few seconds. "Not the bad police… If they're blue like you, then I will… But the red ones give me the willies."

He paused, blinking at her, and nodded, pulling out his cell phone and dialing quickly.

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Barely three hours later the woman, she swore she didn't remember her name but they could call her whatever they wanted because they were blue and not red, had told the police exactly what she'd seen… And then she was promptly taken to the hospital and admitted because the ID in her purse matched with a missing persons report filed almost a year ago, and it turns out she had a mild case of schizophrenia.

And despite the fact Altair knew in his heart she was telling the truth, despite the fact most of the cops knew she was telling the truth, they couldn't qualify her as a reliable source because of her illness without hard proof.

So, Altair talked with the officers who'd heard her statement, and they went in search of the other end of her lead, 'to disprove it' they'd assured, though at the same time they hoped.

Sure enough, a street view camera mounted on the front of a jewelry store half a block away caught the hazy outline in the upper right corner of its feed, of exactly what the woman had said she'd seen.

An indistinct form in black standing on the street corner as the two boys appeared and waited for the light on the opposite side of the street to indicate it was safe to walk.

A van pulled up, the back door opened and two men hopped out, one grabbing Ezio, the other Desmond. Within three seconds the boys were gone.

More security cameras, more seemingly useless footage, and then; four blocks to the east, that same van making an illegal right hand turn. And then they'd hit pay dirt.

Seven consecutive cameras with crystal clear footage of the driver, the passenger, and even Ezio's little hand as he struggled in the back of the van.

It was obvious it was Ezio, because there were only so many kids in Chicago who wore watches that were that fucking expensive.

The van headed east to the very hotel the threatening photos of the two boys had been found.

But, now they had faces…

And with faces, came names.

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It took less than twenty-four hours for a hit.

Twenty-four hours and Altair was in a police cruiser with a young man, barely two years his senior heading to pick up one of the kidnappers. It was quick work. Simply walking up behind him in a Starbucks and slapping him in cuffs.

Twenty minutes later he was in a private room with two rather unsavory cops Altair found himself shying away from.

Of course, he shied away from most people truthfully, everyone except Malik, or Malik's girlfriend Hadiya, and that was only because the woman made excellent traditional foods, especially wharich ayeneb, just the smell was somehow able to coax him from his room long enough to sit hunched over his food, eating quickly and quietly to Malik's right. She was a smart woman, but she seemed to want the two of them to get along more than anything, and Altair didn't want to crush that dream by telling her that he couldn't, that looking at Malik sometimes made him want to drop to his knees and die.

Altair felt like that now, watching the two burly cops in the interrogation room shouting and showing photos to the man sitting there, his head dropped onto the tabletop, saying over and over that he hadn't seen the boys since he'd driven the van, and if they wanted to find them they had to talk to Rodrigo.

Rodrigo was the one to orchestrate it all, Rodrigo that rat, had lied to them all.

"It was supposed to be quick! Grab the kids, get the money, leave them in the hotel!" The man finally broke down. "W-we weren't even supposed to talk to the little brats! Just keep the paper bags over their heads and wait until we had the confirmation that the cash was in hand!" He stomped and banged his head violently on the table top; "FUCK! He lied to us all!"

Barely two minutes later the man was sobbing as he wrote a rather detailed confession and accepted a plea bargain in front of his state appointed attorney. He'd go away for five years, as payment for his confession, and would be on five more years parole instead of five more in prison as a thank you for naming his accomplices.

By midnight, four of the six men were behind bars, and Altair was walking quickly down the street to the bus stop to catch the eleven fifty-five home, then the twelve-forty-five back because he was NOT eating those shit doughnuts at the precinct, nor was he drinking that sludge they called coffee.

He'd been spoiled on Hadiya's cooking over the last year, even if it was cold leftovers in the fridge, or a kabob she'd put in the microwave for him it would be better than doughnuts and 'coffee'.

Hell, he'd even be happy with some of her bread and a damn juice box.

And that's when hands shot out of the alley to his left, am arm going around his neck, the other stabbing him quickly in the shoulder with a hypodermic.

He cursed and flailed, jabbing his attacker twice in the ribs with his elbow, and even as his hands started going numb and his vision blurring, he grabbed fingers, bending them backward, satisfied darkly inside when the bones snapped like dry twigs. Another twist, forcing the man's arm behind his back, POP, a quick little jab to the elbow and the bone shattered.

He managed to stumble three steps toward the street before he went down. First to his knees, then to his face.

His cheek cracked against the concrete, and his vision became quickly distorted, colors dancing.

Blue and red and yellow and white…

Tires screeched, and a man jumped out, running forward. Voices distorted as if through water.

"He broke my arm! MY ARM!"

Someone kicked him solidly in the ribs, and he rolled a few feet, coming to stop on his back staring up into a streetlight, blinking dazedly as his pupils dilated.

"Are you sure he's guy?"

"YES! It's that stupid God damn PI Auditore hired… I'm gonna kill that fucking kid!"

A shadow loomed over him, thin, and wreathed in eerily vivid crimson, and then a boot crashed down on his face and everything went black.

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	2. Chapter 2

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**Chapter 2; Home Sweet Home**

Altair woke sometime later, he didn't know how long, to his own voice slurring out lyrics from a record he'd not listened to in months.

"Come ooooooooon… Baby, dooooon't you wanna goooooooooo… Oh, Come on, Baby don't you wanna gooooooooo… Back to that same ooooooold plaaaaaaaace… Sweet Hoooooooooome Chica—"

And a fist cracked against his jaw, jerking his chin hard to the right, brain thumping around in his skull like a ball in a bucket.

At first he thought he'd fallen out of bed, and he gave his head a shake, groaning when his brain rattled around again, and blinked about the dark interior of the room.

His face was swollen, blood caked in a cut over the twisted bridge of his nose, and something was sharp and hard in his mouth. He pushed it around with his tongue for a few seconds, then spat it out, letting more blood flow out with it, chuckling stupidly to himself when he realized it was half of one of his jaw teeth.

"What are you laughin' at you bastard?"

He let his head flop back on his neck, Adam's apple bobbing in the stretched sheathe of his throat. "Sweet Hooooooome Chicaaaaaagooooooooo!" He choked on the blood and had to rock his head forward again to vomit it out.

"He's high as a kite, Robert, leave him alone…"

From the corner somewhere to his right Altair heard snuffling, like the sound small puppies made when they were cold and hungry.

Altair didn't particularly like dogs, but puppies were different. He'd never admit it because then Malik might kick him out or worse yet laugh at him and call him 'Princess' like he used to before he fucked everything up, but without the amusement— But Altair liked little fuzzy things. Liked to pick them up when nobody was looking and rub their wet little noses against his own and coo in a terribly high pitched voice.

He turned his head, his neck feeling loose and too long, and tried to focus on the corner of the room.

There were two little boys huddled there, tied up with their hands behind their backs, their legs chained to a large ring in the floor, leaning against one another like scared cats.

They were terribly bruised and dirty, and had identical scabbed over cuts through the right side of their mouth, but there was no mistaking them. Altair had spent the better part of a week staring at their pictures.

One of the men, the older one, Rodrigo, caught him staring at the marks. "Do you like them?"

Altair shook his head, groaned, and dropped his chin forward on his chest when he was sure he'd just liquefied part of his brain.

"It's my trademark… That way everyone knows from whom their wares have come… Maybe I should show you my other trademarks… Would you like that?"

Hands were suddenly gripping his head, tilting it back, and squeezing his jaw.

The old man, somehow plump and Santa Clause looking with his white hair and sparkling eyes, came forward calmly, and lifted a knife from nowhere, holding it delicately between his fingers.

Huh, he's had medical training…

"Now, hold still and this won't hurt as much."

There was still too much drug in his system to allow him to twist and fight as the blade was lowered to his own face. In fact, he didn't really feel it at first. Just let his eyes roll over to the boys in the corner.

Altair flipped his numb fingers where they were tied behind his back trying to work his wrists free, grunting in pain as the blade made another shallow cut over his lips, then another, going deeper and deeper with each pass.

The bastard kept cutting, and the pain was growing, was driving him insane. He could taste blood in his mouth, either from the broken tooth, his broken nose or the cutting he didn't know. But he hated the taste of blood. Hated it with every fiber of his being.

"There… That wasn't so bad, was it?"

He rocked backward, the bloody knife still held scalpel like in his fingers. "Now, the three of you match!"

Altair wanted to spit at him, wanted to see blood and phlegm splattered across the morbid Santa Clause's face, but even as he thought about it he could feel the two different edges of the cuts moving against one another, and for a moment he pictured so clearly in his head what it looked like, a neat, carved line that splits a little more every time he moves, or speaks, skin giving way to that thin slick layer of yellow gel like fat, then muscle, wine red, firm and twitching with life. Veins and arteries, bone and tendon—

And suddenly images flash before his eyes. Images of a dusty, golden street in the midday sun and the blackened crater left by the car bomb. Standing there staring in horror his flack jacket seeming to weigh him down like a goddamned sack of cement, fatigues plastered to his body by sweat.

He's sure he pissed himself standing there staring at the bloody mess where Malik's left arm was supposed to be, and the hole he can see clean through in Kadar's chest, can see internal organs quivering as the boy screamed wetly.

When he comes to himself again he's bent forward over his legs, staring at blood and vomit splattered over his own shoes and the legs of his jeans. It's mostly water and bile, at least it wasn't Hadiya's cooking. He'd shoot himself then because he'd never be able to eat it again without tasting gall, and that right there would be tragic beyond comprehension.

The fist in his hair wrenches his head back up and the room spins in color again. Red, blue yellow and white and he can feel the ties around his wrists loosening, can feel hard fingers wrenching his hands up and holding them down by his wrists on the table.

He sees the hammer, sees it lifted, and even sees it starting to fall, and in a sudden burst of strength is able to jerk his hand backward just in time to save it from being crushed, though he's not very lucky, because the hammer catches something and there's a spray of blood and shards of bone and suddenly he's only got nine fingers, and then he's fighting. Thrashing and the bastard at his back is trying to force him down again, but is slipping in the puddle of sick on the concrete floor.

The pain is like a white, blinding light in his hand that pulses with every beat of his heart. A searing throb that makes him want to howl and clutch the mutilated appendage to his chest and curse and shout and stomp because that wasn't fair, he liked that finger thank you very much!

They go down in a tangle of limbs and suddenly there is a loud noise. A rattling of metal that is just a little too close to the chatter of a machine gun for Altair's liking, and he brings his left wrist to his mouth, ignoring the crushed, bloody mess that resembles raw hamburger between his middle and last finger, and bites the bastard who's got hold of him so hard he feels like a goddamned pitbull. Latching on and squeezing his jaws, until the skin pops and tears between his teeth and he's tempted to rip off a mouthful just to spit in the bald bastard's face.

And he's stomping on the arch of the man's expensive Italian Leather shoes, grinning with his teeth all red and blood on his chin, eyes wild like caution lights in the fog when he hears a popping noise and drops forward, throwing the man over his shoulder and punching him quickly on the chin, knocking him out cold.

Light floods the little room and Altair turns on his haunches with a snarl, like a mad dog, angry and hurt and ready to fight, hands up, eyes wild and he sees the garage style door rattling up on its coasters, and suddenly he knows exactly where he is. Chants it in his head like one of Malik's prayers.

West Archer Avenue! Midway Storage! West Archer Avenue! Midway Storage! West Archer Avenue! Midway Storage!

Literally just across the fucking runway from the hotel!

"FUCK!"

And there, standing silhouetted in the light, is the slimy fucker who's arm he'd broken, now trussed up in an elaborate cast, his black hair slicked away from his face like he's straight from a Rat Pack film. Like he thinks he's Dean Martin or some shit.

Altair charges at him, and has no more taken three steps than that Santa Clause bastard sinks his little knife into the top of his shoulder.

Moving in such a ferocious manner, it seemed, had loosened the hold of whatever sedative or drug they'd shot him full of, and Altair felt the pain of the impact like a bolt of lightning, shooting between his collar bone and the joint of his shoulder up and down his arm all the way into his chest.

It felt, for a moment, as if the knife had pierced his heart, and his blood ran cold, stopping him dead in his tracks, He bent, eyes wide, right hand coming up to clutch at the handle of the blade, feeling slick, hot blood running out, so much, too much— Breath wheezing out of his chest.

A kick to the back of the knee dropped him, and the slimy little jerk with the patchy pubescent beard and the broken arm snarled at him as he fell onto his face, struggling to breathe.

"The police are coming, Father… We have to go."

The old man sighed impatiently, but nodded and grabbed up Ezio by the scruff of his little neck, dragging him. "Get the other one…"

"What about Robert?"

"Leave him… The bastard didn't listen when I told him to hold that idiot down."

Altair tried to gain his feet again, but before he could so much as raise his head, a hard soled shoe came down with surprising force on his forearm, and he heard more than felt the bones snap and crunch.

Luckily the stab wound held back most of the pain, but when he heard that slimy little shit laughing at him Altair wished he had felt it, because that would have meant he'd be able to move, and possibly grab the guy's nuts, just to squeeze and feel that delicious POP! As they ruptured, like a small water balloon, or a large zit.

He wanted to hurt this guy… Bad.

The heel on his arm ground harder and he heard the broken ends of bone grating together as the man walked away.

He barely registered the scuffle as the guy unchained and pulled Desmond to his feet, dragging him along… Barely heard the sirens in the distance… Barely held onto his consciousness as he watched blood beginning to pool under him. Felt it mixing in the gravel on the pavement, stinging the bruises on his face, appearing from under his chin and chest like spilled ink.

He didn't want to close his eyes, he had to watch, had to see where those assholes were taking the kids… Had to hold on long enough to tell someone, then he could die.

Everything is hazy in those last few moments and he knows he's bleeding out, but he smiles somewhere inside when he sees the Miles kid twisting, kicking the slimy Rat Pack shit in the shin, pushing him down onto his broken arm, and running.

Altair wants to cheer the kid on, tell him to run, it isn't far to a restaurant or a Laundromat or something, and he'll be safe there.

Rodrigo's son is cursing, climbing to his feet and dashing off holding his arm, and Desmond isn't running for safety, he's running right toward Altair, and that's when his eyes fall shut. Too tired to keep them open. Too tired to hear the frantic little voice begging him to wake up.

Malik will probably throw out my records… He'll probably keep my knives though he always did have a thing for knives.

And for a while there was only blackness.

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	3. Chapter 3

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_Italics = Arabic_

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**Chapter 3; Man of the World**

There is a certain point, when regaining consciousness, where everything is warped. One's senses scream LIFE! And one's body cries out in death throes. Altair had experienced this sensation once before, when he was sixteen, after waking up from having his tonsils removed. There had been a frantic few seconds when his mind worked faster than his body, and with that oxygen mask over his face, blowing cold air on him, hissing like a hose, he'd been convinced he was drowning.

Now though, it was a different sensation.

There was something IN his throat. Something long and snake like, pressing his tongue out of the way, and he couldn't breathe.

Worse than that, he was in a considerable amount of pain. His arm ached, his chest HURT, and his face was so swollen he couldn't open his eyes.

It was this half awareness, this hell between wakefulness and sleep, that Altair found himself prisoner to. He screamed in his head, shouted profanities in the four languages he knew, thrashed, clawed and fought while his body remained motionless save the twitching of his eyelids and a faint flexing of the fingers in his right hand.

Then there was a hand on his head. Gentle, almost hesitant, and a voice, smooth and deep, lowered into an almost whisper near his ear. "You're waking up… I know you are, your hand twitches like that when you're waking up, like you're looking for your gun."

In the three years since the Incident, Altair had never been more relieved to hear Malik's voice.

"Hadiya stayed up to make something to eat for you… When you didn't show up she called your brother." There was a long pause. "You'd better wake up soon… Hadiya bakes when she's nervous, and I don't think I can eat all those cakes and cookies by— by myself…" He shifted, clearing his throat over his shoulder and for a long while it was quiet, then softly, almost pleadingly; "Please wake up…"

Altair's senses relaxed stretching out, taking in his surroundings, focusing on the nerves and muscles connected to his right hand, trying to keep his fingers twitching, trying to work that movement up his arm so he could shake himself awake.

There was a quiet noise off to one side or another, he wasn't able to tell which one, or where, but imagined the doorway;

"Malik…"

The man sighed deeply and shifted in his seat, lowering his voice, his tone firmer, more confident than it had been seconds before. _"I didn't expect you to come back until morning."_

She made a scoffing noise and Altair heard her shoes clack against the floor tile; _"You never do well in hospitals… You were pacing around like a madman while he was in surgery chewing your nails and cursing—And don't pretend you weren't, I have ears."_

_"Hadi."_

_"I'm not complaining, he's your friend, his own family won't stay with him, it's only right. He needs someone to support him, just as you do… So I came back… And the nurses seemed to like my cake so—"_

And suddenly it was bright, and blurry. A thin slit, like a panorama photograph, fuzzy and indistinct, but Altair knew the shapes, knew the faces behind the smears.

Malik was sitting to his right, facing the doorway, leaned back in his seat rubbing at his eyes wearily, and Hadiya was discreetly peeking into the mirror over the sink tucking her hair back under her hijab.

Personally, Altair didn't see why she bothered with it, she sometimes complained that it made her hair frizzy, but unless Malik was taking her out to a fancy restaurant or she was just walking around the apartment without plans to go out, she wore it. She'd once made a quiet comment to him that if she woke up and couldn't get her hair to do what she wanted, it was convenient. 'And it's tradition, my grandmother wore one, and my great grandmother, and my great-great grandmother. I am glad to have a choice, and I am also glad to choose to wear it…'

Malik, as if sensing his thoughts, commented on it, and she poked her tongue out at him in reply, then her eyes locked on Altair and her tongue disappeared between her lips again. She tiptoed to the left side of the bed, leaning over with her eyes wide, mouth curling up into a smile, teeth appearing to be just a white slash in her face. _"Oh! Look here! He's got his eyes open!"_

Malik's chair screeched against the floor and he was on his feet leaning over the other side of the bed, eyes impossibly wide, bending so close he blurred out of focus.

"Altair?"

He wanted to say something, wanted to speak, tell Malik to lean back or they'd bump foreheads, but all he could do was blink lazily amid the swelling and try to breathe.

A machine beeped somewhere above his head and Malik looked up quickly, leaning away before leaning forward again, like some kind of fleshy yo-yo, his brows drawn down in an irritated fashion. "You're intubated, stop fighting it!"

Hadiya shushed him; "Don't be so harsh… Poor man has just woken up from surgery!" She leaned closer and Altair felt oddly claustrophobic. "You just relax, let the respirator do the work for now." She smiled sweetly. "You've had us worried." She looked up at Malik. "I'll go and get the nurse." She left and Altair continued to blink around, mapping the room in his head.

Malik kept staring at him… More like scowling in all actuality, as if he found the fact he'd been so worried bothersome and was being inordinately obtuse to make up for his concern. "If you weren't hurt and immobile I'd beat your head in! You'd better pray what your brother said that boy told them was an exaggeration, or so help me—" If it had been possible, Altair would have laid money on Malik shooting steam from his ears. Thankfully Hadiya returned with two nurses and a doctor at that moment and Malik slunk away into the corner to steam like a little overheated teapot.

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He remained in the intensive care unit for another twenty-four hours, partially sedated, while they monitored his blood pressure and the incisions made into his shoulder and chest to repair damage. Twenty-four hours during which he found himself extubated and allowed to incline the bed a bit so he could speak with the two detectives that came to take his statement. Although 'speaking' was more of a relative term since he was pretty sure afterward that he'd been imagining the fluffy, color changing fur sprouted over the detectives' faces. And he knew he would never live it down because, as sure as the fur was imagined, he was also sure that comments had been made about it few times as well.

The words; 'Do you dye that stuff, or is naturally that green?' came to mind.

And then there was the Miles boy…

Altair wished desperately that he could forget that particular incident.

It was the morning after he'd been moved from the ICU. Malik was sprawled on his back in a reclining chair in the corner, a jacket draped across his chest like a blanket— And as Altair had surveyed the room for changes during the night, he'd become aware of a little face peeking over the foot of the bed.

At first he thought he was dreaming, but the white butterfly closures over the cuts on small lips were too stark to be anything but real, as was the little hospital ID bracelet around a bony wrist.

Desmond was a cute kid, Altair had decided, when he wasn't chained and tied and dirty.

"What're you doing in here?" He grumbled under his breath.

If it were possible, Desmond's eyes got even wider, like saucer sized black pools.

"You made my dad cry."

Altair blinked.

"I only ever seen him cry once, and that was when his girlfriend kicked him in the privates…"

If it hadn't hurt so much to scowl, Altair would have done it. Anyone would cry from a shot to the nards, kid, even ol' cranky britches over there.

"You know what else he did?" Desmond's fingers curled against the plastic rail, obviously coming onto tiptoe to see over it if the way he tottered was evidence. "He hugged me, an' he said he'd never yell at me, or forget to tell me he loved me again."

It was the tone of the kid's voice that made the connection; the quiet, too calm, almost robotic tone, the too wide pupils, the hospital bracelet and loose, fluffy pajamas, as well as the telltale bruising of a recently removed IV on the back of his right hand.

Desmond was in shock.

An overhead loud speaker squawked in the hallway and Malik jerked awake.

"Third floor, code; walker, third floor, code; walker."

Malik sat up scrubbing his face, and Desmond turned to look at him. "Hi." It came out as a tired sigh.

"Aren't you a little short to be a nur—" And then Malik really got a look at him. "Oh."

Desmond turned back to Altair, mouthing his knuckles where they'd turned white over the edge of the railing. "Are you OK, Mister?"

Altair slowly nodded.

"My dad said you're never a'posed to touch someone's blood or you'll get AIDS… You got AIDS?"

"No."

"Okay, good…" He bounced up and down on the balls of his little feet, eyes searching the room, then shuffled up to Altair's elbow and pointed; "Can I sign your cast? Ezio's brother Freddy had a cast on his leg once… He let me sign it. We played tic-tack-toe on it… Ezio always wins though."

Malik quietly got up and walked quickly from the room to tell a nurse where the missing third floor patient was.

Altair watched silently, his heart in his throat, while Desmond used a sharpie that had been in the bedside drawer and scratched his name on the plaster.

Altair stared at him for a few moments after that, watching as his little shoulders slumped, and his fist came up to rub his eyes.

He snuffled pathetically and Altair couldn't do anything but stare at him and watch as tears rolled silently down his face.

A few seconds later two nurses came in, followed quickly by Desmond's father, who dropped to his knees and scooped the boy into a tight hug and a shuddering breath; "Don't go wondering off like that, buddy."

"I'm sorry…" His voice was muffled by his father's shoulder. "I just w-wanted to say thank you."

Thirty minutes after that while Malik was down the street having lunch with Hadiya and her parents, Ethan Miles slipped into his room. His mouth opened and closed a few times, fish like, and he rested his hip on the edge of the sink, arms crossed tightly around his own waist.

Altair stared at him, teeth ground together because it was that forty-five minute lull where the sadistic nurses made him wait before he could have anything more for the pain, and Ethan wasn't helping his temper along at all.

In the end the older man said nothing at all, and left as suddenly as he came.

What didn't sit well, was the unease written plainly on Ethan's face.

But, things happened quickly after that, and Altair shoved the thought from his mind. He had always had weirdly rapid healing abilities, and despite saying this frequently, had surprised the doctors and nurses by recovering enough to be sent home in three days.

He spent the twelve hours after returning to his apartment on the phone, trying to track down Rodrigo, his son, and their private jet… To no avail. It was considered a strictly FBI, international situation, and Altair was just a smalltime PI working out of his halfway-friend's spare room.

Which was the equivalent of Jack Shit to the FBI.

Altair then spent the next twenty-nine hours either sleeping or so high on pain medication Malik took up residence on his couch to make sure he didn't choke on his tongue, or try to leap out a window thinking he could fly. It seemed that he hadn't been healed enough to go on a tirade as he had, and all the shouting and chucking knives at his dart board, had strained the muscles in his chest, which in turn, pulled the muscles in his shoulder, and that sent Altair up shit creek without a paddle so to speak.

Hadiya took the pills after he’d downed a dose and a half and hid them, saying someone had to be responsible and make sure he didn't overdose on them. Too bad for her Malik had thought Altair being stoned was the most hilarious thing he'd ever seen, and returned them with haste and a hungry look in his eyes.

It was during the third night after his release from the hospital that the silence finally broke.

Malik was sitting on his couch with a notebook open on his lap, scribbling away with a distant yet intent look on his face, when Altair had taken a deep shuddering breath and spoke.

"Malik."

The man grunted and lifted his eyes from his book.

"What happened?" He tilted his head and blinked owlishly at him.

"What do you mean?"

Altair licked his lips, feeling tingly all over as if coming out of shock. "Where am I?"

Malik glanced at the clock and a wary look came over his face. Brows scrunching downward, jaw clenching in worry. He pushed his notebook off his lap and padded to the bed in socked feet, sitting slowly in the chair Altair used as a nightstand. He pressed the back of his hand to the younger man's forehead and let concern color his voice. "You're at home, in your bed."

"What happened to me?" His voice was quiet, smaller than he'd meant it to be, and he wasn't sure why he was asking, he knew what had happened, remembered it in fuzzy, dream like detail.

Malik blinked and spoke with a calm, firm kind of factuality, recognizing what was happening; "You were attacked. One of them injected you with a sedative, and from what I can gather from… Covertly looking through your chart back at the hospital, you were beaten up, had your left ring finger smashed off by blunt force trauma, and got your subclavian artery nicked when you were stabbed… You would have bled to death if that boy hadn't stuck his fingers in you."

"Boy?"

"Yes. One of the boys you've been looking for, for the better part of a week— Desmond… He pulled a Dutch Dyke and saved your life…"

"Dutch Dyke?" He grinned in a lopsided, almost stoned way; "You mean like that PERSON who runs the bakery down the street, or the story ab—"

Malik sighed and leaned back in the chair a little, relaxing slightly and rubbed his forehead; "The story about the little boy who put his finger in the leaking dyke! You stupid…" He sighed again, weightily, and looked up with an amused, and yet embarrassed look on his face.

A few seconds of silence passed with only the quiet groan of the street outside, and the slow pattering of infrequent raindrops on the windows to break it.

"Malik?"

"What now?"

"They caught 'em… Right?"

Malik didn't answer.

"The guys caught 'em before they could get away with the Auditore kid, right?"

Malik shifted uncomfortably and looked away into the corner in a mournful way; "No… The FBI is looking for them as we speak. Don't you remember throwing a fit when you were trying to call them?"

Altair blinked up at the ceiling, gritting his teeth against the growing pain in his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with his wounds. He nodded. He knew… He'd just hoped, prayed that it had been a dream. None of it had seemed real until now.

He'd failed.

There was a little boy out there, kidnapped, suffering god only knew what horrors, because of him. Because he hadn't been fast enough, because he—

"Giovanni Auditore and his wife offered to pay your medical bills."

"Why?" He was startled by how thick his voice sounded.

Malik shifted forward in his seat and laid his hand on the sheet next to Altair's. "Because you did something not even the FBI had been able to do? Because you took a case they had given up on? A case that the police were convinced they would never find a lead or even a corpse for, and brought a boy home to his family?"

"And their kid is still out there—"

"That boy, Desmond, was able to give a full description of the men who'd taken them. There are warrants out, APB's and all that other police jargon. They won't just vanish into the ether. They will be caught."

"Before or after they kill him…"

Malik released his breath in a quiet whoosh and rocked back in his seat. "You've always been pessimistic. You saved a boy's life, Altair."

"While another got taken god knows where!"

Malik glared at him; "We can argue back and forth like this all night if you want, or you can get some rest, heal, and help find him."

Altair wanted to argue with him, just for the sake of arguing, but couldn't keep it up. He was exhausted, and Malik was right. He could argue and gripe about it, or he could get better and do something about it.

Malik grumbled to himself as he stood and shuffled back to the couch, picked up his notebook and took up writing where he'd left off.

Altair lie there for a few minutes listening to the scratch of Malik's pen, and the quiet utterance he was sure Malik wanted to shout at him, but said quietly for two reasons Altair didn't really want to think about.

"Egotistical bastard… You're not a goddamned superhero."

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	4. Charity Starts at Home

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**Chapter 4; Charity Starts at Home**

_Nine Years Later_

"Altair…" There was only one person brave or stupid enough to peck on his door like that. And unless there was a talking woodpecker out there, it could only be him. "Altair, you have to get up, someone's here to see you."

He groaned and rolled over in bed. Throwing a pillow at the door, satisfied with the dull 'whump' of down and cotton against the wood, that would scare off any talking woodpeckers, and buried his head under the blankets.. "Goooowaaaay! 'mon vacation."

Malik sighed, an irritated, impatient sound. "Do I really have to get Saree in there to drag you out of bed? You know how much she enjoys it."

Altair sighed and rolled over, rubbing his face with both hands before calling out in a hiss; "Whoozit?"

"Who do you think it is you stupid ass…" A lengthy pause and then a sigh; "It's your assistant."

Altair groaned and forced himself up, dangling his arms over his knees for a few minutes before he kicked the blankets back like a petulant sleepy child, and climbed out of bed.

Nine years… most of which his 'Assistant' had been religiously coming to his aid every evening on weekdays, and every morning on weekends. Even while he'd been in the hospital recovering, there he'd been. Standing on tiptoes, peering over the foot rail with wide dark eyes that seemed the size of dinner plates.

Altair didn't mind much… Save the kid was an annoying little prick sometimes. Chattering on happily. He was always so fucking happy. And the fact that as soon as he'd hit puberty at fourteen he'd taken to imitating Altair in some things, the way he dressed, how he hunched his shoulders, how he 'prowled' around, how he even cut his fucking hair…

It got on Altair's nerves.

Well…

It most usually only got on his nerves when Malik commented on it in that snide 'holier-than-thou' way, the rest of the time he tried to ignore it. Tried to take it as a face value complement and not the boy's attempts to distance himself from the ever widening gap of a relationship he shared with his father.

Of course, Altair supposed, he should have seen it coming the first time. Barely three days out of the hospital, his arm in a cast, trussed up in a sling to support the torn and cut/repaired ligaments and the patch on his subclavian artery, and it's raining, the middle of the night… And there's Desmond on the back stoop dripping wet with a backpack stuffed full of comic books, a pair of Batman underpants and a plastic baggie full of pocket change he'd used to ride the bus across town at two in the morning to get there grinning up at him.

Altair remembered rubbing his face in exhaustion, the hospital bracelet he'd been too tired to cut off scratching his neck, leaning heavily on the door frame because he'd just swallowed a larger than prescribed amount of pain pills not twenty minutes earlier and was feeling politely stoned out of his mind, and he didn't quite believe the boy was actually there and he wasn't hallucinating from the Vicodin.

He didn't remember exactly what he'd said when he'd called Ethan after Desmond fell asleep on his couch, only that it involved the words; _'Why the fuck',_ and then Ethan whining and saying he'd come pick the boy up in the morning.

But Ethan didn't come in the morning, he came at nearly six the next evening after Hadiya had already fed the boy breakfast lunch and dinner then had to excuse herself to cry into Malik's shoulder in the bathroom when Desmond looked up at her with wide eyes and said he'd never had three meals in one day before.

And THAT had gone over like a fucking knife in the chest.

Altair could still hear Malik growling threats at Ethan, and see the taller, thinner man slowly backing away with his hands up his eyes wide in shock.

Malik, Altair had found, was the absolute last person on the planet you wanted mad at you. He knew that from personal experience.

So, no, Altair didn't REALLY mind Desmond's presence… Not as much as he pretended to anyway.

He showered quickly, rubbing a bar of soap through his hair because he was out of shampoo, of fucking course, then over his body and rinsing. Scrubbing himself with a towel, and pulling on underwear, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a hooded jacket because he'd found he remained calmer and less likely to pull that knife he'd started carrying in his sleeve and stab someone if he had his head covered. He shoved his feet into some socks and padded out of his room.

Over the last nine years, Malik had renovated their building. Downstairs on the main floor he still ran his print shop, though much larger than it had been to begin with, venturing into a small time publishing house. The second floor was Altair's apartment and office, the third and forth floors Malik had converted, with help from contractors, friends, and threats of bodily harm to Altair himself, into a cozy little home for Hadiya and their four children, which included a rather luxurious rooftop garden and a large 'family' dining room.

Altair hadn't even made it halfway to his office before he was stopped by a cup of coffee shoved under his nose.

"Rough night?"

He blinked up at the young man's face, in an almost displeased way, but despite the perpetually chipper attitude and irritatingly bright smiles, Altair couldn't find a reason to be angry with the kid, ever.

Desmond had, after all, been able to escape when Rodrigo, his son and another of their helpers had been trying to drag him and Ezio off to their private jet.

Too bad Ezio hadn't been so lucky.

Having the kid around was a constant reminder of another of his failures, as if the stump of his finger and the scars left by the incident weren't enough.

The police had been less than pleased that he'd almost gotten himself killed that night, but thanks to him, they had one boy back, they had faces, had names, and had a laser pointer of a lead.

Six days after that little jet disappeared into the blue with Ezio on board, Rodrigo and his son were arrested in Mexico.

But it seemed too late, because Ezio and the little 'Helper' Desmond had told them about had vanished.

Altair took the coffee and gulped it down, grunting like a caveman as he pushed open the door to his office and shuffled inside.

Most usually he liked mornings just fine. But the past week had been hell. Nothing but delivering summons, and tailing cheating husbands at all hours, and going over information Desmond would have to know to qualify for his own PI license.

It was mundane, and it was so goddamned tiring Altair wanted to throw his computer out the window and laugh maniacally when it crashed into the sidewalk. He was so sick of paperwork, so sick of numbers, so sick of everything. He was tempted to just disappear for a week or two and fend for himself on the streets to get away from it all. He just wanted it all to stop. 

He plopped into the chair behind his desk and leaned back, fumbling for the little remote he kept there that controlled the mechanical massager built into it, cranking it up on high and releasing a whine, his head dropping back, shoulders slumping.

Desmond was still standing there looking expectant.

Altair flipped a wrist at him and swiveled his chair around until he was staring up at a painting he'd bought from a college friend of Desmond's not long ago. He thought the kid's name was Rebecca or something like that.

The painting itself wasn't really that great, some impressionistic crap she'd done for finals and didn't want cluttering up her dorm.

Altair thought it looked oddly enough like the sensation that crawled under his skin whenever he had to deal with the two new sergeants in his father's precinct.

A flare of heat that sank low in his belly and curled up his spine like the blue splatters of paint erupting from the red and orange below, twisted and wound around the black stripes on the canvas.

Altair didn't want to admit it, but every time he sat there and stared at the damned thing long enough with the massager in his chair on high, thinking about that feeling, he became tragically horny.

He was just glad Desmond was too stupid sometimes to notice his boss's fascination with the half-assed mash of colors on the wall. It was bad enough the kid already thought he was a weirdo because he tended to go around his office without shoes, or that he knew more about the life of twelfth century monks and the impact of the Third Crusade on the Holy Land than he did about the life of the average American. Or that sometimes he would pull Desmond away from his work and instruct him on how to incapacitate an attacker with two hits, and on the odd occasion he was feeling particularly dark and broody and Desmond was chatting away about his university friends, Altair would smile in his disturbing way that showed too many teeth, and remind him that he knew seven ways to kill a man with his thumb, and would Desmond like to see one? Altair didn't need to add 'sick pervert' to the list of reasons Desmond had to be wary of him.

But then again, Desmond was an open minded individual, and seemed to take everything in stride, so maybe Altair's attraction to a woman who hated his guts and carried big guns, or a man who packed the other kind of heat could be over looked?

"You're distracted today."

Altair swung around in his chair again, still slouched low like a Bond villain with his mouth hanging open, breath coming out in a vibrating whine. "What?"

Desmond grinned and dropped into a chair across the desk from him; "You're distracted… You get cockblocked at the bar or something?"

"I don't drink."

"Ah, yeah, sorry…" He flipped his fingers at his temple then leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk and resting his chin on them, looking for a record fifteen seconds like a kicked puppy. And then there was a knock on the door and two little faces poked into the room.

Kalila and Saree, Malik's two daughters, and the bane of Altair's existence, peered in at him with large black eyes, cheeks pinked.

"Papa says you'd better come and eat something or he'll whack you one." Saree said from where she stood over her younger sister.

Kalila giggled in a high pitched seven-year-old voice and covered the gaps of missing front teeth in her mouth, then batted her big eyes at them. "Hi, Desmond." And in a flurry of curling black hair and lavender skirt, she darted away, feet thudding rather loudly on the floor.

Saree, though only two years older than her sister, seemed to have inherited Malik's cool demeanor, and prided herself in her ability to pop her little fists on her hips and glare at Altair in such a similar manner as her father that Altair would do whatever she said with a wince and a nervous scratch at his neck.

She looked Desmond up and down; "And if you wash your face and hands you're welcome to join us."

For a young man of twenty, nearing twenty-one years, Desmond didn't act any older than fifteen sometimes. Today… Today he leaped from his chair and disappeared into the bathroom, scrubbing his face with cold water and soap, and lathering his hands. He reappeared with his hairline wet and let the little girl inspect his hands, then watched him with a wrinkled nose as he practically skipped from the room.

Altair decided Desmond's one weakness was food. That kid would do anything if you dangled a bit of falafel or a hamburger in front of him.

Saree was tapping her foot, thin little arms crossed over her chest. "Are you coming?"

He grunted and thankfully, she took it to mean whatever she wanted, and left, though she didn't shut the door behind her, and Altair turned back around in his seat and stared at his painting for a few more minutes before with a sigh, the smell got the better of him, and he slunk from the room, up the wrought iron spiral staircase in the corner of the open air room (That technically was a 'waiting room' but he never had more than one or two people there at once and Hadiya had filled it with plants to make it feel more 'homey' and Altair gave Saree five dollars a week to keep them watered and otherwise tried to ignore them.)

He was halfway up the stairs when his phone rang. Caught right in the middle of what could be a paying job, and the tantalizing scent of home cooking, Altair suddenly wished there were two of him… Or at least, that Desmond was doing what he was supposed to be doing and answering the goddamned phones like a good little assistant instead of noshing his way through Hadiya's cookbook.

With a growl he decided he'd let the answering machine get the call, and climbed the rest of the stairs with his shoulders slouched.

Malik had a large mahogany colored antique table set up in their dining room. Altair didn't know where he'd managed to find a table so freaking big, but there it sat. Malik was at the head of the table, like always, Hadiya to his left empty sleeve instead of his right as was traditional. Altair thought it was more a sign of trust and love than having her to his right hand could ever be, so he didn't say anything.

He took his seat and the plate Gadil, Malik's five-year-old son, offered. The boy was a rather studious kid. Always proper, always polite, he spent most of his time curled against his father's side reading, or helping his mother watch his just-turned-two-year-old brother Zafir, who at times seemed to have more energy than all of his siblings combined and the attention span of a gnat.

When Altair sat down Zafir was sitting on Desmond's lap, munching away at a bit of bread his juice cup listing dangerously to the side. He was chattering away in an almost indecipherable toddler babble and pointing a little finger while Desmond nodded and smiled, helping him tilt his cup so nothing was spilled.

Saree sat beside her mother, answering questions her parents asked about this and that. Smiling, laughing.

And then a little body was squirming into his lap and Altair lifted his arms to allow Kalila room to perch on his knee, setting her plate beside his.

The meal went on in this fashion, Zafir migrating, along with Kalila from one lap to another, until they both ended up, one on each of Malik's knees while the man tried to enjoy his after dinner coffee, laughing when Zafir insisted on 'sharing' his juice, holding up his cup to his father's face, only to wrench it away again with a shrill cackle when Malik pretended to taste it.

Hadiya had disappeared into the kitchen by that time, reappearing with packaged popsicles she used to herd the children up the stairs to the rooftop garden to play, smiling sweetly while she asked in a cooing voice, pressing rapid, too sweet kisses to Malik's forehead, if he, Altair and Desmond would mind doing the dishes.

He fussed, his hand traveling dangerously close to the back of her skirt, eyes gleaming impishly, muttering something in Swahili Altair wished he hadn't heard, and Desmond was glad he couldn't understand, seeing as she swatted his hand and pinched the end of his nose between finger and thumb, threatening his manhood in a drippingly sweet voice while she made his head shake back and forth in an exaggerated 'no'.

"Fine…" He muttered rubbing his nose and waving her off with a jerk of his chin as she patted his head.

"Thank you." She gripped his jaw firmly and kissed him once, then disappeared up the steps after the children.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may blame shitty ex-husbands who hack for fun for the delay.


	5. Cold Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walker is one of Altair's adoptive brothers… He's the usual go-between for their mother, who was not pleased at all when her husband kicked Altair out.
> 
> Desmond is 20, Altair is 28, Malik is 30, Hadiya is 31, and Ezio would be 21.

 

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** Chapter 5; Cold Case **

There were always more dishes than seemed possible. Stacks of pots and pans, ceramic tureens and delicately decorated plates and saucers. It was always daunting to look at, upon stepping into the kitchen. Wondering secretly; 'How long has it been since someone did freaking dishes!' but at the same time recalling that dishes were washed after every meal, and that Hadiya's cooking was so good for a reason.

So, unless you wanted to stand there for more than an hour scrubbing and washing, it was a two or three person job…

Too bad Malik's idea of helping with the dishes was sitting on the counter eating M&M's he'd poured into a pile on the granite and separated by color, laughing while Altair and Desmond washed then dried.

Desmond, despite his love for Hadiya's cooking, detested doing dishes, and became a rather bitter and foul tempered individual when presented with the task. Scrubbing furiously at plates and pots, his mouth twisted up into a childish pout, eyebrows hooked and his eyes intense.

Altair, himself, rather enjoyed it truthfully. It was repetitive, easy to do, took very little thought, and on most occasions he volunteered to do it simply because he could put on his headphones, crank the volume up on his MP3 and completely zone out without fearing someone would walk up behind him.

It seemed though, that doing dishes was a bane to Malik's very DNA, he and his children tried to keep themselves as far away from the chore as humanly possible, even going so far as to avoid the kitchen all together, so he didn't have to worry about them. And Hadiya, having studied psychology and the side effects of PTSD in college, as well as having lived with both Altair and Malik for the better part of eleven years now, had adopted Malik's tendency to simply pause in the doorway and flip the light switch a few times to get his attention.

Desmond was grumbling bitterly while he scrubbed, and Malik was chatting absently with Altair in Arabic while he chewed, asking how things were going, and if he'd had to deliver summons to any famous people again.

Altair shook his head. Nothing important… Cheating husbands, legal documents, although he had gotten a call before he'd come up stairs, and he'd have to listen to the message when he went back down.

Malik nodded, and just to be ornery, tossed an M&M at Altair's head, chuckling when it bounced off and slid somewhere under the fridge.

Altair gave him a sideways look, halfway between irritation and indulgence, and slid the last of Hadiya's decorated plates into its shelf while Desmond finished scrubbing the flatware.

"Think you can handle putting those away?" He motioned toward the forks and spoons.

Desmond grunted without looking, and Altair turned to leave, feeling two, maybe three more M&M's bounce off his head while Malik practically had a giggle fit behind him.

Altair was just taking the last few steps on the staircase when his phone started ringing again. He pushed open the door to his office and was able to flatten himself on his chest across the desk and snatch up the phone before the forth ring, taking note of the number on the caller ID.

"Hello Detective."

The other end of the phone line was dominated primarily by background chatter and the click of computer keys for all of two seconds. Then there was a rather derisive scoff; "Finally… What took you so damned long?"

He shrugged and reached to fiddle with the long thin drawer on his desk, still laying across it like a boneless cat. "Do Detectives not eat?"

"Nothing that won't give you diabetes or a heart attack… But this isn't a social call, Altair, this is business."

"Ah, here I was hoping you just wanted to hear about my day."

"Do I look like mom to you?" There was a lull in the typing and then; "How are—How are things anyway."

"Busy I guess… Running all over the city delivering summons, stalking unfaithful husbands and wives like a vampire. Endless mountains of paperwork… The usual." He shrugged again and glanced over his shoulder when the door creaked and Desmond slunk in like a kicked pug, snorting and practically foaming at the mouth.

Altair counted to three in his head and sure enough the moment Desmond laid eyes on him he was smiling and pointing. Miming the words 'What the hell are you doing?' at him like a bad stage actor.

He gave Desmond the finger and wiggled around until he could stand up again, shuffling around to drop into his chair.

"That's not what I meant…" An impatient sigh from the man on the other end of the phone and Altair could have sworn he heard brains rattling in his head. "Forget it."

"OK, so what's this business you were so intent to tell me about that you had to interrupt my lunch?"

The typing resumed; "You remember about eight, nine years ago some kids getting snatched?"

"Kids get snatched all the time, you've got to be more specific." He slouched lower in his seat and clicked the 'low' setting on his chair's remote.

"Some Illinois University student and her two friends just came in here about an hour and a half ago with pictures from their spring break trip to Morocco."

Altair snorted; "You called me just to brag about seeing some barely legal college girls' spring break photos?"

The typing stopped; "No, I called to tell you that one of the people in those photographs looks identical to the age progression photo of the Auditore kid."

Altair felt his blood run cold and every muscle in his body went rigid. "It's a coincidence, it has to be—"

"I'm faxing the photos over now… I'll let you decide if it's a 'coincidence' or not."

Altair sat up, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, snapping his fingers at Desmond and motioning to the reams of printer paper stacked on a shelf in the corner of the room by his filing cabinets.

Desmond's face became all eyes in confusion, but he tore open a package anyway and handed a thick fistful of paper to Altair, standing in front of his desk with his hands clasped under his chin like a little kid eager for approval.

Altair turned his chair quickly, shoving the paper into the Combo printer by his computer and turning it on.

He could hear the noise of the police station over the phone. Chatting, some drunk howling in the background, someone laughing at a rude joke.

If ever a man's stare could cause something to spontaneously combust Altair's little second hand Combo printer was ticking down its last seconds before ignition.

It seemed to take hours before finally the damned little green light blinked in rapid succession and it screeched, printing slowly but surely, two pages and the FAX confirmation sheet.

Altair snatched it up, eyes wide, breath held as he stared.

His heart leapt into his throat.

He remembered a frightened little face below a dirty fringe of hair, wide hazel eyes wet and red rimmed with fear, a little mouth with a deep, scabbed over cut.

That hopeless feeling as he'd watched Rodrigo drag the boy away and he'd been powerless to stop him.

There he was…

A close up from a family portrait taken just a few weeks before he'd been kidnapped, a crooked mischievous, self assured grin, right beside a two year old age progression photo with the added scar. A handsome nineteen-year-old with his father's grin and his mother's eyes… And on the second page was an obvious enhancement if the size of the girl's ear, which hadn't been cropped out of the photo, could be trusted.

It was a street, a typical Moroccan street at sunset with vendors and pedestrians, but there standing on a corner with his face turned just enough to be visible in the photo, looking off at something on the other side of the street, was a young man. Thin and pale, dark circles under his eyes, long brown hair and a scar through the right side of his mouth.

_"It's my trademark…"_

At first glance Altair thought it wasn't possible that the spunky little kid from the photos could have turned into this half starved, dirty looking young man on a corner in Morocco— But the eyes.

Altair knew the look in the boy's eyes so well his chest ached. He remembered that look as Rodrigo had dragged the boy around the corner and out of sight. The hopelessness. The pain-

"Altair, are you still there?"

He jerked, teeth grinding together, still staring at the photo. "Y-yeah," His voice cracked. "Yeah, I'm here."

"Okay… You spaced out on me there for a second."

"Where did the girl say she was?"

"Chefchaouen… They did a tour. History majors, she kept going on and on about this 'adorable little bag' she bought and the fascinating architecture." He could hear the frustration in the other man's voice.

"How long ago was the photo taken?"

"Ten days…"

Ten days may as well have been ten more years in a case like this. Who knew what condition Ezio had been living in, who knew where he was, or if he was even still alive.

The man on the other end of the phone paused and took a deep breath before he spoke; "Since he's presumed dead, without hard evidence the FBI won't send anyone to check it out. I spoke to the Deputy Director already… They said that it was a million in one chance that he was still alive after nine years…"

Altair took a deep breath and shoved all the feelings down. All the anger, all the fear, and the remembered pain. "I'm not the FBI…"

"I'm not asking you to get involved. I can't ask that. The case went cold years ago and he's assumed dead… Hell, the family had a fucking _memorial service_ for the kid for Christ'sake—"

He could hear it. Could hear the desperation and hope in his voice. "You're not asking me anything but my opinion on a few pictures, Walker."

"Well, alright then, good!" There was a long pause and Altair heard papers shuffling and someone in the background shouting out something in Spanish.

"Mom's been asking about you."

"What'd you tell her?" Altair scribbled quickly on a piece of loose leaf notebook paper, balled it up and threw it at Desmond, who'd retreated back to his own seat and was playing Tetris on his phone. The ball hit him in the cheek and Desmond looked up at him with a hurt expression on his face. Altair pointed emphatically at the wad of paper then at Desmond and made a 'telephone' fist with his left hand scowling.

"I told her I'd ask how you were doing."

Desmond snatched up the paper, and flattened it;

_'I need to go to_ _Gibraltar_ _tomorrow, one way ticket, don't know when I'll be back, hold down the fort while I'm gone. Your test is Monday at 11, don't be late.'_

"I'm doing good…" Altair leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "Thinking about taking a vacation…"

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End file.
